Memories of a Mud Flower
by Leaflette
Summary: She is a Harad girl named after a desert flower. And so she grows, blossoming into the forbidden laws of her people, struggling to find peace, love, and change within herself as the Harads slip farther and farther into Sauron's grasp...
1. Memory One, Part I: Pelda u'Etumwale

**The Memories of a Mud-Flower**

The story of a Harad girl and her Harad life. Please review!

Memory One, Part One. The Adoration Chants.

There was no light in the dense air of the tent where Akshamala lay quietly, listening to the sounds of the elders leading the Prayer of the Eye one very, very early morning. "_Yuingo mara tsunyo emenche u'Nora…_" came the low chant that made her shiver. How could that beautiful Eye that lay far beyond by the dark mountains have prayers that made her blood run cold?

_Guard us against the swine of the North…_

She was afraid to get up. "_Pitri, o Saurontei, mara aimasha ne, mara dell ne komard…" _

_Father, o Sauron, we adore you, we follow you forever…_

She hoped she would never have to take part in them, the adoration chants. She had only seen thirteen of their harsh desert years, but she saw girls younger than her getting their _pelda u'etumwa-le_ or wings of womanhood, and having to take part in these morning rites. Pumeet, one of her younger sisters, tossed and turned in her sleep. Pumeet was sunny and warm, always talking and jabbering and throwing her heart everywhere as though it was a game. Her mother had etched a tiny necklace of sun symbols in a ring around her neck. It was beautiful, and Akshamala was secretly jealous. Pumeet would be seen as a lovely, sunny girl while she, if you could even see her marks, was known as the quintessential "quiet child".

"_Ne…Saurontei, Bazari, Pitri, mara u'ren-o felle ne-o tel'mayana leshe non._"

_You…Sauron, Eye, Father, our lives are yours to give light…_

The chanting reached a screeching, shrieking, uncommonly grotesque, and Akshamala could barely bear the sounds as she pulled her head under a pillow. She murmured her own prayer, a song her mother liked to hum. It was about Omparkash, the ancient god the Harads had worshiped before the Coming of the Eye. Now he and his eight wives were nothing but an old wives' tale, a cheery folk song, a nursery rhyme. Saurontei was All. In the tiniest of whispers, Akshamala gave up a prayer against fear. "_Eleka namen…namen…adumai, adumai…shosouden..._" she whispered in the softest of tones, struggling to remember words.

It was three weeks later when Akshamala received her first blood, and her mother's eyes glistened with tears. "_U'Akshamala…u'tel'lamwa fede etumwa…_" she murmured, pulling Akshamala against her breast. _My Akshamala…my daughter is a woman._

In her mother's embrace, Akshamala wondered how much longer the girl in her would last now. That part of her who loved to help with the baby mumaks that were raised at the very edge of their encampment, loved to feed them and to ride them when her father was away; who Noaje secretly taught to use the biritaki, just for his amusement… who braided her hair tightly to her head in many little rows so she could run with the wind at night when her family slept. This girl-part of her…would it slowly fade, lost in an hourglass of tiny sand grains?

That night, her mother led her into a brightly lit tent. Akshamala sat down on a stool, and her mother helped remove her desert robes. She shivered in cold dread. Her mother stepped outside, and she heard her exchange low words with her father. She returned with a knife and a very slim poker, which she immediately set in the fire. She bound up Akshamala's hair into a ball at the top of her head. "Shhh…_mata, mata Akshamala…_" she said softly, laying a hand on her shoulder as she sat behind her. Akshamala willed her body to stop shivering as her mother slowly raised the knife to her daughter's skin and began to carve the first swooping lines of the _pelda u'etumwa-le_.

Like all of the scars she would collect over the years, Akshamala would force the memory of the searing pain out of her mind. Yet, that was all that the _pelda u'etumwa-le_ meant. It was the memory of wings. Wings that were now clipped; freedom forever vanished from the earth, forgotten except for the feathery engraving on her skin


	2. Memory One, Part II: The Chants

Thanks so much for reviews! Apologize for shortness. Will have new, much longer chappie tomorrow.

Memory One, Part II

The adoration chants were as terrible as she thought they would be. Her heart quivered with the silent fear of the Eye, Bazari. Saurontei watched her so closely she could feel his flaming eyelashes flicking the back of her neck. She watched as they led a virgin Harad girl to the altar, her face steady and unwavering as they laid her down across it.

And it was Akshamala who watched with terrified eyes as the struck the white ritual knife into her breast and her blood spilled forth onto the stone. And then came the endless streams of words from each Harad's mouth, praising the Eye and asking them to do horrific actions against the people of the north.

Fire and lightning…they made Akshamala drink the blood of the virgin as did all the other women who were not married. So that they could hope to be as lucky as she. Akshamala managed to stay emotionless, unwavering, without tears or sobs. But it hurt.

Her mother told her not to worry.

The Eye was beautiful and fierce, the cause of all Harad's glory.

Akshamala did anyway.


	3. Memory Two, Part I: Marriage

Memory Two, Part I: The Marriage  
Noaje swung his biritaki down at his little sister.

"Ho! Pale-face death!" he yelled. Akshamala giggled and blocked him. She swung up, mimicking the moves of a specific pattern dance. Her braids fluttered as the wind blew fast and hot across the desert dusk. Her brother blocked her once, twice, and then her biritaki pointed at his neck.

"Yield, oh miserable fiend!" she said sternly.

"No! I will never surrender to Harad scum!" cried Noaje dramatically. Akshamala poked his neck with her biritaki—it was extremely dull. Noaje fell to the ground, holding his throat and rolling around.

"Ahhh…you are the best!" he said, and died.

"I know," she countered, plopping down beside him. Noaje sat up, shaking the sand out of his dark hair.

"You really have grown rather good, little sister," he smiled, tugging on one of her braids.

"I have a good teacher," beamed the Harad girl.

"You are my first student. When I am a great warrior, I will teach all of the men under me how to fight with a pike…not just wave it around."

"You want to fight?" asked Akshamala.

"Of course," said Noaje, "I must protect my little sister from the pale-face men. And any other men, too…" he growled.

Akshamala laughed. "I pity my husband already…but that is a long time coming."

"Not so long," disagreed Noaje, his voice over-protective and stern, "for I have seen some of Father's friends watch you when you serve them. You may be growing dangerously pretty." Akshamala burst out laughing. "Pretty? That is Pumeet or Jambalee. Pumeet is so happy and talkative…I don't know why, but I always lose my voice around the men."

"Why?" asked Noaje. "I don't quite know. I suppose I'm frightened of them, in a way. Harad men are strong and cruel…"

"Only when you break our laws," insisted Noaje. "Then one deserves what one gets."

Akshamala opened her mouth to reply, but then held her tongue. Noaje was the only man she'd ever known to feel safe with. She would not mar that feeling with an argument. "Can we do one more?" she asked pleadingly, standing up once more.

Noaje chuckled. "Alright, alright…this is the last one." He leapt to his feet and swung fiendishly at her. She scooped her own pike from the ground and they began another pattern dance.

Soon, the two siblings were so caught up in the movements that they forgot everything around them…until one of the night watch heard their clanging and came to investigate. It was needless to say that things did not turn out well for the two. They were brought before their father, the great Rukaba, famed chieftain of the Harad peoples. Akshamala knew deep in her heart that this was the end of her secret night practices with Noaje. Rukaba was not frightened easily, but when Noaje solemnly told him how long he'd been teaching Akshamala (four years!), he felt a mite of panic stir his heart. He knew that his eldest daughter was as quiet as a flower in bloom…and this was quite a secret that she'd kept hidden from the world. How many other secrets did she carry underneath her silent mouth? It worried him.

Later that night, when he told his wife of his decision, her face turned grave with panic.

"Rukaba, heart, no. Please no. She is so young. She will die of it," Mikali said, her eyes wide.

He shook his head. "It is my choice. This will show her the ways and the rights of the world."

* * *

Akshamala met her future husband the next day.

He was called Dhenuka. Dhenuka, she knew, was one of her father's best friends. He had seen many summers…more than twice as she. Almost three times as many. She feared him above all else. More than Bazari, more than Saurontei, more than her father, more than anything she'd ever met. He was tall and very broad; his skin rippled with bulging black muscles from fighting in the tribal wars and training fierce mumakil. But his eyes…they were wide and dark and she seemed to drown in them. His hands were much too big. They captured everything about her—her voice, her eyes, her spirit.

The people of her tribe talked of Akshamala's marriage for a long, long time. Harads were not foolish and barbaric as pale-faces thought. They knew a woman birthed best at about the age of twenty. And so, Harad women were often married at nineteen. It had slowly become a custom for a Harad girl to marry in her nineteenth summer.

Not with Akshamala. She would be married five years too early, six years before she could bear children the right way.  
Her wrist was enscribed with fourteen circles in a chain. Fourteen for how old she would be when she married her husband.  
A month later, Akshamala married Dhenuka at dusk. Her mother's wedding gift had been winding akshamalae flowers that began at her right wrist, traveled up her arm, nestled on her shoulder, flowed down the right side of her spine and took root at her lower back.

"A gift for your husband," she'd said gleefully.

She wore a beautiful Harad wedding dress, called a miyude with its winding, perfect saree. She knelt before the shaman and prepared herself. When they were married, after celebration and dancing, Dhenuka took her hand firmly. Akshamala's heart was dying from fear. She hated this—she knew nothing of being a wife. She hated being so afraid of her husband, so afraid of displeasing him, of making him angry. When she hesitated, Dhenuka squeezed her hand commandingly. With a simple bow of her head she submitted to his will, and let him lead her off to the bridal tent. Her mother watched, hidden tears falling for her daughter inside her heart.

He had taken no time in stripping her of her miyude, tossing it aside. He gave a small cluck of approval at her akshamalae markings and roughly dragged his hands down them, as though wishing to stretch the scars and make them bigger to the naked eye. She did not flinch at the strange pain. I am better than that, she told herself. He touched her in places that she did not know and did not like. His hands were almost grimy in their feeling, as though through harshness upon her body he could bring their spirits closer. It was a war for dominance that he did not even have to fight. She was down upon the bed, and then he was on top of her and—_stop it hurts it hurts it hurts stop i hate i hate you stop blind pain black sweat hate…pain stop, stop, stop… _

_Just stop, just stop, I'll do anything, I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm sorry, just stop..._.


	4. Memory Two, Part II: Her Child

This chapter concerns birth control and implied abortion. If you morally disagree with this, please don't take offense. I'm not trying to start a fight. Also, domestic violence. sad  
And, okay, Akshamala's husband is kind of a bastard. But, something to keep in mind is what morals and laws are valued in Harad culture: loyalty, trust, honesty, the submission of the woman to the man. And, what she said before rings true: Harad men are strong and cruel. Their laws cannot be violated. So…when you add a fierce, temperamental personality to this equation…the result is not very pleasant. **Thank you for your reviews! **They make my heart sing with joy. Seriously.

Memory Two, Part II: Her Child

Akshamala's life took a slow, dark turn. The days were unpleasant, and night was a constant nightmare. Every day, Dhenuka made her go to the altar of Sauron at the head of the village to pray for pregnancy…and a son. Every night, Dhenuka tried to make the process possible. Sometimes, several times a night.

Akshamala had no desire for a child. She was physically incapable of birthing it properly—her waist and hips were much too narrow, so much of her was undeveloped and unfinished. Akshamala also had no desire for her husband. It became routine for her. Every night, she would undress and lie underneath the blankets of their bed and wait. He would come home to their tent and undress, crawl beneath the covers and lie with her. Akshamala would not move, nor breathe, nor speak, nor respond to any of his attentions. She felt, quite literally, rather dead when he would do it.

And every time she went to the altar, she prayed to be barren. But Akshamala knew that gods hardly ever listened and took matters into her own hands.

With her sisters, Pumeet and Jambalee, she secretly began making an old, forbidden medicine that prevented childbirth. It was completely taboo for any Harad woman to make the substance, and even more so to ingest the agent. She did so every day for a year and a half. She felt life die inside her many times. But her intense fear drove her to do whatever she could to prevent anything from happening to her that she could not control.

Dhenuka was very confused about his wife. These days, he made her pray at the altar three times a day. He lay with her two or three times a night. She received a fertility blessing from the shaman at each holy day. She drank the blood of the sacrificial virgin, long known for its aid in reproduction. Akshamala still did not conceive.

His wife was not a bad woman. She cleaned, cooked, all the things a good wife did. She was quiet and did not complain. He was her master and she had never questioned that.

That was, until one day he came home early from the mumaks with a bad wound on his back.

Akshamala had been drinking the black bile. It was disgusting, but she was grateful to it keeping her barren one more day, one more week, one more month, one more year. She was swallowing the last traces of it when Dhenuka suddenly entered the tent. He came upon her and his eyes formed into hard slits.

"What are you drinking?" he asked suspiciously. She opened her mouth to answer, but he abruptly yanked the bowl away from her. He sniffed it carefully, tasted a little of it from his finger. His eyes turned dark and menacing, and he set his gaze upon his wife.

He struck her as hard as he could across the face. A cry escaped Akshamala's lips as she crashed to the ground. Dhenuka threw the bowl away. "You conniving bitch!" he roared, dragging her back up by her hair. Akshamala fought back, trying to make him let go of her, but he was so much larger than her that it was useless. And it only made him angrier.

Dhenuka shook her so hard that her vision faded in and out. "You shame me! How could you! Have you no loyalty? _Answer me!_"

Akshamala did not have the coherency to respond; he tossed her to the floor.

"I am your husband, your master. You will do what I say. You will never speak to your family again, do you understand? Your sisters are a bad influence on you. You will never question my word again." growled Dhenuka, his eyes alight and fierce. She raised her head from the ground and managed a brief nod.

"Good," he said. He picked her up off the floor and carried her to the bed.

* * *

Two months later, Akshamala was pronounced with child by the shaman of the Eiliai. The shaman took her unmarked wrist and carved a ring of star-shapes around it…the sign of the mother. She would have an encirclement for each child she would have.

Dhenuka was very happy.

Noaje was not.

He had some inkling of what had gone on between his sister and her husband. He did not like it—he had begged his father not to marry Akshamala to the older man. Akshamala was too young for the task of a being a wife to such a fierce person. And now he noticed the cutting off of Akshamala from their family. He went to Rukaba, his father, and asked to have Dhenuka and Akshamala be brought into their household. Rukaba, doubting whether or not he had made the right choice for his eldest daughter, agreed with his son.

Dhenuka and Akshamala went back and became members of the Iwai household, and life turned much better for the Harad girl. Because she was pregnant, Dhenuka no longer reached for her at night. She was back with her siblings again.

There is a saying as old as the Haradrim itself: Harad women delight not in their husbands, but in their children.

Harad marriages had become legendary for turning out badly—spouses were mismatched, did not love each other, and generally were at a disagreement and discomfort with each other. So it was with Dhenuka and Akshamala.

Akshamala loved this baby.

She was frightened of having it, that was sure, but she loved her. The shaman had prophesized a daughter—Dhenuka did not like this, but shamans were not always right. Akshamala believed him fully.

She was going to have a daughter. A daughter to love, to cherish. She would teach her secrets that only a mother can teach. Her heart was warm with unfaltering joy. Smiles graced her face more often now as she progressed in her pregnancy.

Her mother noticed the change for the better in her daughter and was glad.

Days passed, and then months. Time came and time went. It was about a month before Akshamala was to give birth that her little sister found her with interesting news.

"'Shamala!" cried Jambalee, running towards Akshamala as she cooked _lebedee_, hard desert bread.

"What's wrong?" asked Akshamala, stopping her work.

"They captured a pale-face on the border! A real one, too."

"Really?" asked Akshamala, sort of amused.

"Yes…I want to see him. I've never seen one before."

"Neither have I," said Akshamala, shaking her head and beginning her task again.

But that was to change.

Much was to change.


	5. Memory Three: The Meeting

Introduction of new, v. important character in this chapter. Thank you so much for your reviews!

Memory Three: The First Meeting

Akshamala stayed just inside the tent-flap, listening to Dhenuka talk to Noaje.

"We tied him in that little cave by the oasis," said her brother. "No one will find him. Rukaba wants to keep him so we can trade prisoners with the pale-faces."

Dhenuka nodded. "A wise idea."

"You and I will be in charge of him while Rukaba negotiates… make sure he does not get away. Or die. We need him. Guards are stationed there."

"Of course, Noaje. You have my word," she heard her husband promise, and at the sounds of his coming feet she scurried away from the tent-flap. Her husband walked in without a word, but the tension in the tent lessened. It had been for these past few months. Things were better now—perhaps Dhenuka had forgiven his young bride for the months and months and months of self-induced barrenness. Akshamala changed into a thin yuilde, wrapping her saree around her shoulders for warmth in the dark desert night. She lay down upon the bed, curled in a little ball. After long moments, her husband doused the candles in the tent and lay down beside her.

Hesitation.

Dhenuka slowly lay one of his arms about his wife, his hand resting on the considerable bump in her belly. Akshamala was smaller than a normal pregnant woman…and almost unheard of guilt panged his heart, though it was very small. Perhaps he should have waited.

It still had not really hit him that his wife was sixteen. That there was twenty-five years between them. These were the kind of things that Harad males did not worry over.

Akshamala still had the long, skinny, girlish legs of a sixteen year old, her limbs still too thin to properly support life. Her breasts, practically non-existent when he'd married her, were now larger, forced to swell in order to hold a mother's milk. Long fingers, thinly braided hair… a late bloomer, a mud-flower bud with its green encasing ripped open, hidden petals pulled out before its time.

His wife was abashed by this showing (even if it was slight) of affection. Slowly, she felt him pull her against him so that they touched. She let herself lean against him and smiled.

Maybe they would work through this.

Two days later, Akshamala heard the news from her mother.

No.

It could not be. There was no reason for it. No logic, no rhyme.

No explanation as to why Pumeet was to be the virgin sacrifice on the next holy day.

"Two weeks," said her mother stonily, "until the Holy Day of the Eye rites. Then she will go and be sacrificed on our altar with the white knife, and we shall drink her blood to proclaim the Eye's joy."

"Yes, but…why? Why her, of all women?" Akshamala had asked, her eyes weak with held back tears.

"Akshamala!" snapped her mother fiercely, "Be grateful! If you were not married, it would be you on the altar instead of her. Pumeet is beautiful, kind…Saurontei will grant us many blessings for her blood."

Akshamala opened her mouth, but her mother interrupted her.

"Be silent. You would not yield half the blessings that she will," she said, her eyes like fire and her face like stone.

Her daughter was taken aback by the comment…never had her mother expressed displeasure with her for her crimes of two years ago. But now she could see it—the secret malevolence for those who violated the unspoken laws of Harad. 

Akshamala knew she would never win this fight. She bowed and left her mother. Pumeet was worse than her mother had been. Her kind, sweet sister at first thought she was jealous, and then pushed her away.

"You do not understand the honor this brings our family, sister," Pumeet had said fiercely, but kindly, as though she was talking to a small child.

"What kind of god demands the sacrifice of a girl not yet opened into womanhood?" snapped Akshamala uncharacteristically. Pumeet gasped and narrowed her eyes.

"Do not let others hear you speak such blasphemy. I will tolerate it; I love you, you are my sister. But others who hear will not be so forgiving," said the one marked for death, and bowed her head, a signal of goodbye. 

Akshamala was weaving at midday when Dhenuka returned home, supported by Noaje and her husband's friend, Mayander.

"He's inflamed with the desert fever, 'Shamala," explained Noaje. "He fell down at the fields and was almost trampled by a mumak calf. The shaman says he will be sick for a long time, but he will live." They set her husband down on the bed, and Akshamala immediately rose to help them. She wet her husband's brow with cold water from the oasis, and sat a long time by his side before Noaje came back into the tent.

"I've been summoned to the war councils with Father," her older brother said heavily. Akshamala nodded.

"You know we are housing a pale-face."

She nodded again.

"You are the bravest woman I know, so I will ask you to do this out of duty: every day that I am gone, you must travel to the oasis-cave and make sure the pale-face is still alive. There are guards there; he would not dare touch you. He is bound and gagged, but he must stay alive. Rukaba wants to trade him for our cousins that are rotting in the White City's dungeons," spat Noaje after his request.

She gaped for a moment, and then asked, "Why?"

"Akshamala," he smiled crookedly, "when will you learn to stop asking that question?" He left her.

_He's right, _she thought, wetting a cloth to place upon her burning husband's forehead. _The time has come for me to stop questioning everything. _

I have realized now that I really never wanted to know the answer. 

_I am afraid of what the answer is._

The next evening at dusk, she went to the oasis-cave. Two strong Harad men lingered near the entranced—one she did not know, the other one was Mayander. They gave a brief nod to her and stepped away from the cave.

As the sun set, Akshamala lingered outside. It was strange. She was about to see her mortal enemy, the one whom she'd been trained all her life to loathe. It gave her the queerest feeling imaginable as she stepped soundlessly inside the cave.

It was very dark. There was dim light of dusk in the cave, but a small, flickering torch crackled from the wall. The light was faint, with maybe a tinge of red inside the cave.

She saw him in an instant.

He was chained to a heavy, unmovable stone pole, his wrist and ankles both bound around it. His head was dark and bent so that she could not see his face. What hair she could see was a mass of curls the color of coal. The Harad girl stepped towards him noiselessly, drawing upon the gift that had never left her: her quiet feet. She was close to him now, close enough to touch his lowered head. The curiosity inside her emerged; she outstretched a careful hand…

Her brown fingers were an inch from his hair when his head jerked up suddenly and she snapped her arm back with a small gasp, her feet pulling her steps away from him.

She found she could not draw her eyes away from his face. It was pale, of course, but not fair—it was rugged and darker from wind and rain. His face was held a thin, black beard that did not leave his chin. His limbs were very long, she could tell, even though he was in a crumpled position. His eyes were dark…a murky brown color…and they held…such a sadness to them. So strange, to see humanity in the eyes of her fated enemy. 

His skin seemed taut, dry, his lips were chapped and she approached him slowly again. She was unable to quell the frantic beating of her heart. She was close to him again, and knelt down a few feet away from him. Even when kneeling, he seemed to tower above her. He gave her a last look and let his head fall once more. 

Akshamala glanced about the cave and saw a bowl of water lying some feet from him, almost where she was.

And then the answer came to her.

The guards would not help this pale-faced creature no matter what orders he was given; the laws of Harad mattered most. In fact, they would consent to taunting him: leaving a bowl of water here, so near and yet so far from the prisoner, when they would not let him drink, perhaps even for days. This man could not die, but the Harads outside could not overcome their own code of morals.

Akshamala had already felled laws, tradition, morals to the wispy desert sands.

_I am the only one with the foolishness to help you._

She picked up the clay bowl in slightly-trembling hands. She moved, inch by inch, towards the bound pale-face, who did not look up anymore. Anger and a deep sorrow had vested itself in her heart. The hate had ebbed, if only a little.

Akshamala could not touch him. She held the bowl under his bowed head. His eyes opened; she watched carefully. His head lifted slightly to look at her. She held the bowl a little higher, and he lowered his face to the bowl and drank.

It took some time. She held the bowl there until he was done, his face rising and droplets of water caught in his beard.

She set the bowl down and rose, her eyes unable to leave his. There was no malice in them. No malevolence, no hate towards her, no bitterness… no prejudice.

It did not make sense. He was supposed to hate her.

She backed away slowly towards the cave entrance. Night had fallen.

Akshamala heard a voice come from those weathered lips.

"_Sorma ne,_"said the prisoner hoarsely in clumsy, but good Haradic.

Thank you.

She did not know what to do; she shook her head, turned and sprinted the last few steps out of the cave as well as she was able. She said nothing to the guards.

Nothing made sense. Not anymore.

Akshamala went back to her husband.


	6. Memory Four, Part I: Akshamalae

Reviews are lovely! Thanks. This is quite short, and in Halbarad's point-of-view.

Memory Four, Part I: Akshamalae

The flowers are strange. The pretty brown ones grow where she draws water each day; the ones that bloom near the entrance of his cave where he watches and waits, waits for something he cannot name.

He waits for water. He waits for freedom. He waits and waits, and nothing comes. The world has forgotten the pale-faced man buried in the desert sand. He is tied, captive, a prisoner. The ones to guard him walk inside his cave and laugh at him, kicking sand in his face, garbling guttural Harad insults that he can barely understand. They leave water in a dirty clay bowl several feet from him. In this desert, he has learned, water is a temptress. And here, she flaunts her charms most eagerly as he watches that bowl for four days. He can look; he cannot touch. He cannot drink.

It is night.

The light is dim. His skin feels tight and dry. He is weak and defenseless, a husk. His huge limbs, almost giant-like to a normal person, beg to move. He does not lose hope, no matter how wasted he feels.

It is then he realizes there is someone in the cave with him. Someone who is stepping with such silent feet that he cannot hear them, but his head snaps up and his eyes are set upon a Harad girl. She jumps back; he regards her softly. She has the long, thin limbs of a girl; yet, she has the belly of a mother and her eyes are like stone, betraying nothing except her fear. They look at each other for a long moment; he drops his head back down.

Many moments later, he opens his eyes to see the bowl before his eyes. He dips his head and drinks, thanking Eru and whatever gods can hear for this angel with brown hands. She takes the bowl from him and he looks up at her, trying to convey his thanks. Confusion clouds her dark eyes and she takes many rapid steps back as he mutters "Thank you" in the language of the Haradrim.

She flees. He sighs.

The flowers watch.


	7. Memory Four, Part II

Thanks for your reviews! (tear) Sorry for the formatting issues—it didn't look like that when I put it up. Okay, I stole a song in this chapter from a popular film and twisted it my own way, because I was stupidly inspired. Also...one more note. Everything they say is in Haradic unless otherwise noted. The stuff they say in italics is also Haradic...but its the actual words, not just the assumation, kay:)

Memory Four, Part II

She brought him water the next dusk, and the dusk after that. She burned incense and prayed for her husband's health, pushed medicine down his throat and managed to keep him cool in the burning desert. In return, Dhenuka tossed and turned and murmured names of women who were not Akshamala. The holes in her heart were pulled and yanked farther open.

The pale-face man kept trying to speak to her. A phrase or two, no more in his Haradic and Akshamala would be out of the cave, back to her husband, her husband who cried out "_Linaiai! Linaiai! Eshu numde! Linaiai! Numde! Henea du tu_…"

Linaiai, Linaiai, my only love, Linaiai, my love…where are you?

She curled up next to his sleeping, fevered form, hands buried in her thin braids, clenching, crying, rocking, and clenching, clenching as though she could pull her hair out long enough to hide her shame behind a curtain of quiet girl hair…

_(The mother-flower forgets to tell her seeds how to live before she pushes them out into the world. They scatter, thrown by wind, scarred by sand. They are whipped by water, torn by trees. They flitter, they fly. _

_They die._

_There are no more blooms._

_No more mudflowers.)_

* * *

The dance.

Pumeet flies in her yuide like a little scarlet bird. There are bangles on her wrists and on her ankles and she clinks as she walks.

"'Shamalaaaaa…look at me!" she says, twirling in a circle for her sister.

"You are very pretty," beams Akshamala, stopping her to adjust her sister's saree. Pumeet scowls, and then giggles.

"Will you come dance?" inquires the little bird. Akshamala pauses and shakes her head.

"No…you know wives may not dance," she replies.

Pumeet looks very sad. "But Akshamala…you never got to dance at all! We are not even allowed to dance until we are fourteen…and then you were…married," she says, making a sour face.

Akshamala only smiles and says, "It matters not. Go! Go dance for the harvest with the people. Dance for me, if you wish."

The little bird grins. "I will, I promise."

* * *

She walks away from the encampment. She hears voices, smells the fire and hears the drums and the people dancing for their harvest, the only celebration to any spirit but Saurontei. The chorus of the Harads, seeming hundreds of voices rising up to the sky in a giant, choral prayer.

_Steady as the beating drum…_

_Singing to the cedar flute…_

She stops at the oasis with her clay bowl and a few pieces of the dry desert bread of the Harads. Her ears will not stop beating in time to the music. It is hard to not tap her feet, to move, but she stands strong against it.

_Seasons go and seasons come…_

_Bear the thorn and bring the fruit…_

She returns inside the cave with the pale-face, with his strange eyes that never leave her. He looks up at her, a hint of surprise in his dark eyes, as though he was puzzled by the fact that she kept coming back. She pities him, for he looks as if he is in pain from his chains, but she will do nothing. She cannot.

_In the hottest desert sun_

_Wind that blows across the dunes_

_Along where the mumaks run_

_By the bright and shining moon!_

She approached the man once more, lifting the bowl up to him. He did not bow his head to drink. Instead, he lifted his head to look her in the eye.

"I would have thought you would be dancing," he said clearly, and quite earnestly.

And in the greatest surprise of all, she answered.

"I am not allowed to dance," the Harad girl nearly snapped. She hated this pity she had for herself, this pity that had shown up when Pumeet had told her to dance. How much she had not been able to experience. How she had been thrust into growing up. Stop thinking about it, she told herself. You are much better than this.

The man looked just as surprised as she'd felt when she spoke.

"Why not?" he asked, testing the waters. He hoped she would speak again. His isolation here in the desert had been nearly intolerable.

She laid the bowl down on her lap with a sigh. Obviously, the obstinate pale-face would not drink until she'd maintained a civilized conversation with her. Perhaps he thought she was a savage to be examined.

"In Harad law," she said dully, "once a woman is married, she does not dance. Dancing makes a man look at a woman. This is forbidden."

And her own husband's bitter hypocrisy flared in her heart.

"I see," said the pale-face thoughtfully. She lifted the bowl up again, and this time he drank. She carefully held up a few ripped pieces of the desert bread to his lips, making sure she did not touch him.

As soon as he was done, he spoke to her once more.

"Why wouldn't you dance anyway?" he said, catching her eyes again.

_O Great Spirit, hear our song! _

Help us keep the ancient ways,

_Keep the sacred fire strong! _

Walk in balance all our days…

Akshamala averted her eyes away from him quickly. She picked up her bowl, moving awkwardly now with her pregnant form.

"No," she said, shaking her head as she left hastily, nearly scared by the man's words, "You do not understand. No."

She left him. He knelt there, chained to the post, and watched her go, following her with his eyes as long as he could.

Her name, he thought, I need to know her name.

Akshamala got back to her tent, making sure to avoid all of the festivities. She laid the bowl away, and checked on Dhenuka. He slept soundly, and she thanked any god she knew of for this. She stood by the tent flap for a moment, listening to the chorus. Listening to the sound of feet against the sand. Bangles clinking together. Laughter. The sound of limbs. Softness. Fire.

Wings.

Why don't you dance anyway?

_Seasons go and seasons come,_

_Steady as the beating drum,_

_See the mudflower blossom! _

Steady as the beating drum…

Akshamala doused all of the light in the tent. There was nothing but blackness surrounding her. She tied her braids up on the top of her head.

And she danced. She danced for the darkness. She danced for the wind. She danced in silence, in shadow. She danced for a man that would never see her. She danced for a love inside herself that could never be.


	8. Memory Four, Part III

Memory Four, Part III  


She cannot stand the little tent anymore. Dhenuka is still ill, though she doesn't understand why. The shaman has said over and over that he should be better by now. Dushkriti, her little brother who is training to be a shaman, comes to look at Dhenuka and wrinkles his nose.

The tent is too small, too warm. She is alone. She has been alone for a long, long time. She longs for dusk, when she can leave. Mumaks are better than this. Pale-faces are better than this.

When the horizon begins to blur into darkness she picks up desert bread and water and flees, retreating to the cave by the oasis. Mayander and another Harad are keeping guard, as usual. They nod to her as she walks inside the cave.

The pale-face is there and for some cursed reason, smiles at her when she comes in.

"Hello," he says brightly, even though he has been tied to a pillar for weeks. As usual, Akshamala is struck dumb by the mere presence of optimism from this man.

"Ah…hello," she replies, a bit uncomfortably. She hopes Mayander cannot hear. She kneels before him and produces the water to get this over with…though she does not want to go back to the tent any time soon.

"How are you?" he asks conversationally, as though they are both seated at a table for a casual dinner. He does not drink. He has a plan; he has goals to accomplish tonight. She is very interesting to him—she is so young, so scarred, and a mother all at the same time.

She wrinkles her nose at him, an eyebrow raised and skepticism looms in her eyes.

"What kind of question is that?" she asks, rather harshly as she sets the bowl down on her lap.

"A civilized question," he answers after a moment of thought.

"Your people do not ask my people 'civilized questions'," she retorts. "I am a savage, remember?"

"…You believe your people are savages?" he asks, a bit of confusion in his voice.

"No, but your people do. Do not patronize me by attempting to hold a conversation," she says almost haughtily.

"I'm not," he protests lowly in his clumsy Haradic. "I'm not. I'm sorry if I've offended you," he apologizes in the greatest act of irony yet seen by mankind.

She takes a breath, feeling childish and stupid for her outburst. She holds the bowl up for him and he drinks. She helps to feed him, still making sure that they do not touch.

When he takes his last drink, he lifts up his head and asks her, "What is your name?" 

She does not answer, then in a soft, almost apologetic tone, says, "I cannot tell you. It breaks Harad rules."

"You Harads have strange rules," he muses aloud, disappointed. Akshamala, in a moment, feels a dark pull of guilt. This man has done her no wrong—he is a pale-face, that is all. He has not looked at her with hate, nor acted cruelly towards her, yet she cannot even give him her name in return.

"In Harad," she begins slowly, "We mark everything upon ourselves. We learn early in existence that nothing stays forever where we live—in the sand and in the mud. So we carve our legends upon ourselves, so that they may be known for as long as we live."

With a soft breath she pulls up her left sleeve—it has been growing cold at night, so she has been taken to wearing them when she visits. It bears the fourteen circles of marriage, the spiral of the Eiliai in her palm, and the winding vine of mud-flowers that begin there.

"This is my name," she says, holding up her arm in the dim cave light so he might see.

"_Akshamalae_?" he asks. Mudflower?

"Almost," she replies.

"_Akshamalaena? Akshama? Akshamalo_?" he lists name after name, until she is worried he will never guess. However, the man is quite determined to know.

"…_Akshamala_?" he asks tentatively.

In her own surprise, she smiles. She stands up, gathering the bowl and begins to leave. He looks up at her puzzledly.

"Maybe," she says, the little smile warm on her face for a reason she cannot explain.

And she returns to her tent.


	9. Memory Four, Part IV

Memory Four, Part IV

Dhenuka is better. He sits up, drinks on his own, eats on his own, asks his wife how their child is. Akshamala nearly faints from shock. There must be something in the water, she thinks, for the men here are acting so strangely. The next day Dhenuka goes back to the mumak plains, and the tent is quiet. No more sweat, no heavy breathing, no tosses, no turns, no fevered whispers of lovers' names…

She loves the quiet.

She weaves. She makes a meal for her husband. At dusk, she visits the pale-face. Today, she does not answer his questions, for the quiet that has developed inside her cannot be disturbed. She leaves him, goes home and eats with her husband, all in silence. She gets into bed quietly. He lies beside her quietly. In the quiet, he reaches out and pulls his little wife against him. They lie in silence. They sleep in silence.

It is enough.

A scout returns with word from the war councils. He runs to the warlord—Akshamala's father, Rukaba, with the news. Dhenuka goes to him, as do all of the other men in the tribe. Hours pass. Akshamala is sick with worry for her cousins in the dungeons of the white man. They are only a little older than her—Shiba, Falanai, Suralom. They and a few other Harads are there, are rotting, are choking on the stench of pale-faces. Night falls. Akshamala does not go to see the pale-face in the cave.

Dhenuka returns. His eyes are angry; his skin seems to be stretched to the breaking point across his body. He sits upon their little bed forcefully, and she flocks to sit beside him.

"Husband, husband, what has happened?" she asks frantically.

"It is Suralom," he manages. Her eyes widen.

"What of Suralom?" she asks after a moment, her voice very quiet. Suralom was perhaps Noaje's best friend, a dear member of their family. He had known of Akshamala and Noaje with the pikes at night, but had never told.

"He is dead," he can barely speak. "He died at the torturous hands of the pale-faces! They whipped him until the flesh fell in sheets from his skin, until his blood was a desert upon the floor. They did it even as Noaje…even as Noaje…" Dhenuka is losing control, such is his anger and sadness. Suralom was one of the most prized young males of the tribe—this was his first mission out in the open.

"Even as Noaje begged for his life…" Dhenuka buries his head in his hands, elbows upon his knees, and a cry escapes from his lips, one of horror and utter, utter loss. Akshamala, without thinking, wraps her arms around him and hides her face in his shoulder, her own tears escaping. They are one, united in this moment in their grief and in their anger and in their hate.

* * *

Halbarad is in his cave. He realizes that Akshamala is not coming for him today, with a twinge of sadness. He wants her to talk. He wants to know who she is, why she is here, and how she does not scorn him each time she enters the cave.

He hears footsteps at the beginning of the cave; his head darts up almost instantly. A broad, muscled Harad male approaches him with great strides. He realizes what is going to happen the moment before it does, but he can only close his eyes as the man's boot smashes into his face. Blows are hailed down upon him; fists in his eyes and feet in his chest and he can do nothing nothing nothing nothing nothing but be tied to that post and close his eyes and bleed.

He struggles, of course, valiantly against his bonds, and if they could, his chains would applaud him for it. Something crunches—has his face broken?—and the beating does not stop until the Harad's anger is quelled, which will never happen. The anger, the grief, the pull of injustice and immorality cannot be fought against by any human force.

There is a darkness that has been growing inside the people of Harad.

When the beating stops, Halbarad is a shadow of blood.

* * *

Dhenuka rises from Akshamala's arms after a few moments. She quickly wipes her eyes, astounded at what has happened, ashamed that she ever thought the pale-faces were capable of kindness. The prisoner has been swept from her mind. He stands slowly, turns to look at his wife. He touches her chin and tilts up her head for a moment, thinking. He releases her gently and leans down. He kisses her forehead, an action that makes Akshamala jump a little. He looks at her once more and then strides from the tent. The anger, the bitterness and the darkness that still lies in his eyes makes her shiver.

Akshamala wonders where he is going.


	10. Memory Four, Part V

Memory Four, Part V

Dhenuka is eating at the house of Wurusae tonight. He is Suralom's father, and together with many of the other men of the tribe, they are celebrating his life. They drink, they remember. They remember Suralom, the bright spot of the tribe, the one to succeed them all, the one with feet light as sand.

Akshamala weaves.

It is a little past dusk now, and the night is upon the desert. She puts down the weaving, and takes a drink from their water. With a start, she remembers the pale-face. She has forgotten him. Malice creeps up upon her heart with the memory of Suralom's death.

She takes a bowl of water and slips down to the cave. No one is guarding it tonight. She finds this very, very odd—would even the celebration of Suralom's life take them away from their post? Apparently this is so.

She wanders into the cave. It is much darker than usual, though the moon is shining in at a most peculiar angle. She walks inside, her steps soft and light. The pale-face is shrouded in darkness, though she can see the outline of him. She kneels in front of the man and holds the water up to him, as they have done so many nights before.

But he does not move.

She cocks her head, peering quizzically at the dark shape. "I have brought water," she says matter-of-factly. Perhaps he is asleep. Still, there is no response. She holds the water under his nose, his face, for a long time. He does nothing.

Frustrated, Akshamala stands and nearly stomps out of the cave. She is washed in moonlight. Prepared to throw the bowl down in the dirt, she catches sight of the water inside it.

She stops.

There is something in the water.

Dark, heavy droplets swim inside the bowl. In the moonlight, they are black and barely there. But the Harad girl knows what it is all too well. Blood.

Her brother's words ringing in her head, she goes as fast as she can back to her tent and collects clean water, some cloths and a torch. She lights it, and goes back up to the pale-face's cave.

She slowly steps inside, the torch lighting the way. She sets it in place of the burned out one, and suddenly the cave is filled with eerie, reddish light. She sees him.

She sees him, and her heart cries out of its own accord.

For the heart cares not of color, nor of skin. It does not care of race, of eyes, of hair, of hands, of feet.

She is on her knees before him, soaking a rag in water. She holds it up to his face—a face which is now covered in blood. She touches him; he jumps and his eyes crack open from their darkness. His eyes are so filled with pain that it hurts her.

"_Mata, mata_…" she murmurs, as if she would to a child. "_Beshuna ta, ani moranai ne_…"

Hush, hush. Be still, I will not hurt you.

She knows the art of wounds but a little; she cleans the blood from his face. His eyes are dark, and he can barely lift the lids of them. He has lost teeth; his face and neck are a mess of bruises. His nose is broken. She reaches up to touch it, to set it back in place, but he pulls away as far as he can.

"_Ani moranai ne_," she says again, her voice gentle. I will not hurt you.

He strains against his bonds in his attempt to pull himself as far away from her as possible. She reaches, and then pulls her hands back. She does not know what to do.

"_Shedhem_," she says. Please.

The words, the warnings from her brother are lost from her mind.

"_Shedhem_," Akshamala whispers again. Please.

Her hands reach for him, and she takes his head in her hands. He stiffens, and for a wild moment Akshamala thinks he might bite her—but why would he? A strain of thoughts is echoed in her mind, a whisper from her conscience. Why would he?

He relaxes, and she holds his head in her hand while she sets his nose back in place. He makes no sound. _Breathe_, she prays in silence.

It is a long time before the blood is gone from his face and neck, though the wounds and bruises still decorate his wind-whipped skin.

There is not much left of whatever garment he wore—she pulls the rest of his shirt off without much thought. She inspects him carefully, and with quiet fingers she finds that many of his ribs are broken. She positions them in place as best she can, then takes the longest rag she has.

She comes as close to him as she can, and slowly wraps the rag around his ribs, hopefully to keep them more in place. He is horribly thin from his stay here.

His head lolls forward and drops upon her shoulder. She flinches, but he has not the strength to pull it up. Here she feels it. He is breathing. It is slight, and it is ragged, but he is breathing. She can feel tiny tendrils of air upon her ear.

She pauses, relieved. He will live. Noaje can still trade him for one of her brethren in Minas Tirith. Yet, it is a lie. This is not the reason she is relieved. She does not know, but what she will remember is that she is _here_, kneeling before a pale-face with no name, and he is breathing.

She will stay here through the night, to make sure he breathes still.

It is not for her brother, nor her husband that she stays.

She does not know why herself.

But the flowers know.

The flowers always, always know.

* * *

A/N: Thanks for your reviews! I love you all. 


	11. Memory Five: Death of Birds

Formatted in a very strange way. If you hate it, tell me, and I will re-write. Thanks for all your reviews :)

Memory V, Part I: Death of Birds

When she comes back to the tent in the early hours of morning, Dhenuka eyes her from their bed. "Where did you go?" he asks, his eyes very cold.

"I was tending the pale-face," she answers, her own eyes just as cold. "He is almost dead."

Dhenuka spits. "Did you touch him?" He stands up, bringing himself up to his full height. He is a shadow-tower of black sand. He is her prison and her darkness. His eyes dare her to answer.

"Yes," she snaps, fumbling. He moves past her, nearly shoving her out of the way.

"Do not touch me," he says as he passes, his voice fading as he leaves their tent. "I do not want to be tainted as you have." She does not even turn her head to see him leave.

"_Ne shi donnanai, asipatra, _" she hisses, but he gone before the winds can carry the traitorous words to his ears.

You are a coward, my master.

* * *

Three days.

There are three days left.

Akshamala sits beside Pumeet and they sit in silence next to the pale-face's cave. There is nothing that can pass between them that has yet been unsaid. It is dusk. Akshamala should go tend the pale-face soon, but she sits here instead.

"What will you name her?" asks Pumeet finally, her song-bird self unable to stand the quiet any longer.

"I do not know," admits Akshamala. "If it is a boy, Dhenuka will name it. But if it is a girl…"

Pumeet thinks for a long time. "Marayana?" she offers. Akshamala shakes her head. Pumeet makes a face. "Hmm. I don't know, sister. It's a hard choice to make. You will be due very soon," she reaches over and pats the older girl's ample belly. Akshamala lets a small smile give way.

There are so many things that Pumeet wants to tell Akshamala. To not be scared. To try to love her husband. To stop talking to the pale-face. To name her baby _Khalida_ for immortality or _Nazahah _for purity or maybe even _Sameh_…forgiver. To love the Eye. Yes, that is what Pumeet wants to tell Akshamala most of all. That the _Bazari_ would save them and love them like no god had ever before.

But she has no courage left to say any of these things. She reaches over and takes her sister's hand. And they sit there for long, long moments until it is dark and there is nothing left in the sky.

They walk her up to the altar. Harad surrounds them. She looks so afraid, thinks Akshamala. She is so afraid. She can see it Pumeet's eyes as they lay her down on the altar, as they chant around her and the priest holds up his knife. In fact, the fear never leaves her eyes, even as the knife comes down into her breast, even as she screams, even as she convulses and bleeds upon the altar, even as she dies.

She dies. Fear is the only thing left in her eyes

* * *

The calls were easy enough to identify. They were having one of their religious sacrifices again, realizs Halbarad in the dimness. He'd begun to learn over his stay here that the Harads were growing more and more desperate in their struggle against the pale-faces. Sauron had promised them light, love, and protection against those who dared to stand against them. And what means he must have used to sway the proud Harads to his side. He shakes his head.

He thinks, his only company darkness.

He remembers.

_The Harads. Killing. His father going away to the border. Goodbye, father. Halbarad, a little boy of nine. Waiting. Waiting longer. Waiting even longer for Father to come home. His mother worries. His mother cries often. Halbarad, a little boy of ten. Waiting even more. Impatience. When is he coming home? Mother cries a little more. Practicing with a blunt sword. Getting teased for being tall. Tree-boy. Tree-boy. Riding a big horse that doesn't like him. Halbarad, a little boy of eleven. Waiting. Tapping his foot. Riding the horse that likes him a little better this year. Better with a sword. Better when they call him Tree-boy. Haha. Mother cries every night. Halbarad, a little boy of twelve. Riding a horse that loves him when the group of men come. Black clothes. Sad eyes. Mother doesn't cry. She's out of tears. _

_Halbarad, a man of twelve. Goodbye, father. Goodbye. _

He remembers.

* * *

Akshamala has forgotten emotion. She did not cry as they sacrificed her beautiful sister. She drank the blood. She sat there as they danced and danced to the fire as it licked their skin and the shadows.

Akshamala does not remember tears.

She goes to the cave. She brings water for the pale-face. He greets her as usual. Akshamala says nothing. She has forgotten him, too. He drinks.

"Who did they sacrifice?" he asks.

She says nothing. "In my country," he goes on, "we do not have…religious sacrifices. No one dies for their gods. Why is this so here?"

She says nothing.

"Why?"

She says nothing.

He falls silent too. There is much that has gone unsaid. After a moment, she speaks. It is with an utter note of disbelief in her voice that she does so.

"No one…dies?" she asks, trying to lose the shake in her voice. Halbarad shakes his head. "No one."

They go for moments in the dark, the light streaming in from the moon. It casts an eerie glow upon them.

"For nothing," she finally says, her voice so quiet it could be a mistake. "My sister died for nothing."

She cries, then. In front of the pale face in the pale, cold light of the moon. Her head in her hands, bent down in order to muffle the sounds of mourning, of mourning for the beautiful bird that still had many songs left to sing, that had many skies left to fly.

Halbarad leans over her, pulling his chains, his recent wounds aching. He covers her in his shadow so that no moon, no sun, and no black Eye can see her. He covers her in his shadow so that she may mourn for the loss of the many birds, the many beautiful birds that will sing no more…

_Shhh. Shhh. _

Goodbye, birds. Goodbye.


	12. Memory Six: Miracle

Thanks for all of your support, and continue to review! We're approaching the last few chapters.

Memory VI: Miracle

The pain!

It hurts.

The fire that is growing inside her is absolutely malicious. It's slicing at her mind with pointed teeth. Her eyes roll back and forth in feverish delirium. This is unlike anything she's ever known before. She's so frightened. There is no one to hold her hand. She clenches it in its emptiness.

Her bones clatter in fear, a making a grotesque testament to her reeling being. Her blood reaches out in terror to lace her bones with tiny red tendrils. It's shaking. She's shaking. She's writhing. She screams.

Floating on a crest of pain as it throbs delicately once more. Pushing at her back. Oh, oh, oh someone save her. Someone help her. Someone pull her out of the water!

There is water rushing in, like madness growing inside the dark cavern of the mind, rising, rising, and its so frightening. The anticipation of it flooding over her head. Her teeth are clenched and she sucks in a breath before it explodes over her and she falls. She falls. She falls.

She's crying out to gods that the Haradrim aren't supposed to believe in anymore, but she hopes the Bazari will forgive her later, when she's escaped from this sinister deathtrap of colliding pain. Perhaps he will understand—she would pray for his understanding later.

But, gods, not now. She is a strong girl, but not this strong. There is nothing to protect her, no soothing voice in her ear. No one to tell her how this must be done—she is alone, alone, alone, alone.

All by herself. Gone from Harad. Gone from her tent. Gone from her family, her husband, the pale-face that she must feed. She is lost to them all. In the swarm of her delirium, the pale-face's visage is the one that briefly shadows her eyes. When she dies, who will feed him? No one will. She will die, and he will be left all alone.

She can't let that happen. She must live so that he can too.

Push, Akshamala. Don't go under. Swim. Learn to swim, little desert child. There is much water in the world that you will wade through.

It hurts.

Swim.

* * *

Loveliness. Happiness. To look into eyes and be loved. This is all that matters in the world. There is no pain or hate or malevolence. Just love. I love you. The words are much too easy. The sounds of a heart growing to an unknown size. I love you, I love you.

* * *

Akshamala names the baby _Karishma _for _miracle._


	13. Memory Seven: Leavetaking

Thanks for your reviews! Sorry for the long wait...

Memory VII: Leavetaking

He's waiting, rather impatiently. No one has come to see him for three days—has he finally been forgotten? Doomed to die in this little cave, a product of misery and lapsed memories? He shakes his head against the well of black thoughts and pessimism that assaults his consciousness. He is not going to die here. He refuses to.

It is the next day's night before anyone comes, and it is his keeper, the desert-flower. When the shadow of her silhouette darkens his cave, he knows there is something odd about her. There has been a rapid change in this girl, something so intense and subtle that it has even altered her shadow. A sort of mysticism surrounds her, an aura of calm and of peace. He can barely see her from his bound spot, but he knows there is something amiss.

She approaches him, the water and flat bread in hand, and then he sees it. His eyes widen, and a tiny smile jumps immediately to his lips. How lovely. She is carrying her baby in a sling, and it is perhaps one of the most beautiful creatures he has ever seen.

He is fed and watered, rather thankful after this long fasting hiatus. When he is done, he says, "Congratulations," softly, in her native tongue.

She sits on the ground in front of him, gently removing the tiny infant from the sling. He sees that tide of new emotion wash over her, tranquil as rain. It is the crook of her elbows as she cradles it, the span of her small hands, and the tightening tendons of her arms. Every muscle and joint is knit with love for this tiny thing. He is mesmerized, not by the sweet, minute child being so carefully tended, but by the mother, who has undergone such a radical change in temperament that he can barely recognize her. How much she loves this little baby.

And he realizes something. This is her. A heart, laced so fully with compassion and love that the atrocities of the world around her have come close to ravaging her spirit. A bitter husband, a dead sister, a detached family…all have conspired, in the world, to break her into normality, into something that can be disposed of and tossed aside and not loved as much.

"Her name is Karishma," she says quietly.

He will love her in their stead.

* * *

Noaje has returned, along with the company.

He hugs Akshamala closely, coos over her baby, and smiles broadly at her. It is a daughter, yes, but it has worked a miracle on Akshamala's being. She is glad that he is back. He talks to her husband sternly. Things are better. Do not let them get worse again.

Akshamala sets the baby to sleep as Dhenuka and the men meet outside at the tribal fire. For some reason, she is compelled to wait for him, in silence. She sits on the bed.

She knows they are discussing the pale-face. What to do with him. The pale faces of the evil countries north of them have not relinquished their Harad prisoners, torturing them and executing them like brutal pigs. She feels that deep anger that has been taught to her in her heart again and clenches her fists.

But she unclenches him when she thinks of the pale-face caged in the cave. He is not like them. He is kind. He is compassionate. He understands the Harads; he knows they are duped by the Bazari.

Betrayed by the Bazari.

How much blasphemy and sin is she committing even thinking about it? But she cannot stop. The Bazari cannot be looking out for Harad. What kind of menacing god demands the sacrifices of virgins, the tithes and the loyalty that is demanded of such a proud people? What has happened to them in return? The Harads in the north have been slaughtered. Where was the Bazari then?

She sits, silently. There is no Bazari.

There is no god to watch over them.

* * *

Dhenuka slides back into their tent, late at night. She sits, plaintively on the bed, waiting to hear of what happened. He ignores her, undresses, gets into bed beside her. She is silent, and patient. "Do not go to the pale-faces cave tomorrow," he says lazily, dropping off into sleep.

"Why?" she asks, quietly, hoping in his drowsiness he will not slap her for impertinence.

"Noaje will execute him the day after tomorrow. It is decided by the gods."

* * *

Every beat of her steps is a question. Why? Why? Why? Karishma is utterly silent, as usual. She holds that trait from her mother—to be quiet in all things. She watches with her wide eyes.

It is night. It is late, and dark, and the pale-face is being executed tomorrow.

She cannot let it happen, and she does not know why it cannot.

Her heart had blossomed with deep pain, with a shuddering agony that she almost broke out into tears at when Dhenuka has so callously delivered the news that she had not expected to affect her at all.

But it does. His death is inevitable. She cannot let it happen.

So many things in her life have been chosen for her. Her birth. Her punishment. Her good traits. Her bad qualities. Her husband. Her age of marriage. Her baby. All inscribed upon her, deepening her scars as memories. The memories of a desert-flower, one that grew at the consent of its gardener.

She will not choose to let the pale-face die. She will not consent to pull out the pale-faced weed. It is not his time to die.

She enters the cave quickly, reaching in the sling, hiding with Karishma, for the key to the chains that she stole from Dhenuka. He smiles at her, expecting the norm, but she can feel his rigidity when she climbs behind him to unlock the chains that have bound him for so long. He falls forward, his legs aching like slow fire. He has not stood for months. She helps him up, and they must wait minute after minute until he finally gains control of himself. He opens his mouth to speak, his eyes wild and confused. She hushes him. If those who guard the cave hear, their deaths will be eminent.

She leads him out of the cave a back way, him still hobbling like a slave, until they finally reach the black outside. They stand, far away from Akshamala's village, and she looks at him. He is the tallest man she has ever seen.

"They would execute you tomorrow," she said quietly, knowing they have little time.

He looks at her, those eyes filled with such an intense mix of emotions it is hard to name them all. "Why?" he manages, "If they find out it was you…"

"I do not care," she whispers, and a gnawing emptiness fills her heart, eating what is left of it. "You do not deserve to die."

He stares at her, and she sees tears in his eyes. She finds herself and her baby in his embrace later, and he holds her so tightly that she cannot breathe, nor does she want to. She did not realize life beyond this moment. Soon he will be gone.

He steps back from her, his hands still on her shoulders. He lowers his head so they look into each others eyes directly. His voice is edged with plea. "Come with me."


End file.
